


Eight Sittings

by ruebellab



Category: Tin Man (2007)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruebellab/pseuds/ruebellab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It'll be their secret and when the painting is hung in the royal gallery for everyone to see, DG can look at it - look at herself in that ridiculous dress and remember something good and whole and hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Sittings

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a companion to the painting mentioned [my work also]

 

It's been eight sittings so far - and each time the painter laments her restless posture and fidgety hands. She's not the picture of a queen - but she'll be one in a year's time.

Az seems to have an easier time of it. Her graceful nature and effortless elegance lends itself so much to the title she adamantly refuses.

...

DG never takes the dress off when the sittings are over, even though it makes her tense and uneasy.

She goes to find him instead. He's usually busy - captain of the royal guard and all, but at the sound of swishing chiffon, he clears his schedule.

Eight sittings so far - and eight times he's fucked her in that dress. It'll be their secret and when the painting is hung in the royal gallery for everyone to see, DG can look at it - look at herself in that ridiculous dress and remember something good and whole and hers.

It's never neat and clean - when he has her in that dress, it's never soft and sweet. She doesn't want to be handled like a princess - everyone else can treat her that way.

But him - her tin man - he gives her something real.

Sometimes she's standing, both her wrists caught in one of his large hands as he drives into her, the delicate bodice of the dress snagging on the rough wooden boards at her back. Sometimes she's face down, with tumbling curtains of fabric around her face as he teases her with clever fingers. Sometimes she's on her knees, her lips closing around his cock as he fists her hair, her skirts pooled around her on the hard and dusty flagstone.

And always - after each and every time, he tells her he loves her. Not for her title, not for what she's going to be, not for what everyone else sees - but for who she is, and for who she is to him.


End file.
